


Long Way Down

by annalore



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Cheating, M/M, POV Second Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalore/pseuds/annalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Punk wants to end his relationship with John, but John isn't ready to let him go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Hurts The Most

This.  This, you think, is the worst part.  When you stand before him, doing your utmost not to hurt his feelings.  Because you’re not a bad guy, you’re not a cruel man, but the truth is you stopped caring weeks ago and what you really want now is to avoid causing a scene.

You’ve always thought breaking someone’s heart should be harder, but it’s almost painfully easy.  It’s no more difficult than breaking an arm, and it never hurts _you_.  When it gets to this point, you can barely remember what it feels like to be stupid in love, and you always wonder why you got yourself into this mess to begin with.

John Cena loves to keep up appearances.  He’d never start something in public, so that’s where you do it, in the hotel restaurant after a show.  The place is nearly vacant, but you never can tell who’s watching when you’re not behind closed doors, so he’s got his public persona firmly in place.  He orders and starts to eat like he doesn’t have a care in the world and despite knowing him better than that, you also know he has no idea what’s going through your head.

He used to love that about you.  “I can never tell what you’re thinking,” he’d say with a smile and a shake of his head.  And you think, you _think_ , you used to find it endearing.  Because it wasn’t always like this, silent dinners, thousand yard stares across a table, wondering how long it’ll be before you can get rid of him and be alone again.  Now you know that it just means he doesn’t know you, and you really should have seen it coming.

“John,” you say as he cuts into his steak.  He looks up at you, nothing more than mild curiosity on his face.  “I’m tired,” you start.

“I’m almost done,” he answers placatingly, pushing food into his mouth and chewing.  You watch him with a combination of longing and disgust.  You’re not eating yourself, you’re only here because of the opportunity it presented, and you have no intention of sharing a room with him tonight.

“I’m tired of this,” you say, shaking your head.  “It’s not working, John.”

To anyone else watching, you might have just made a comment about the weather or some equally bland shit, but you can see the way his face freezes for a split second, the way his eyes dart around the room then back to you.  If you were alone, he might have done more, and you know you made the right choice of venue.  He chews on his food thoughtfully and the last thing he’s about to do is start crying on you.

Finally, he looks up at you.  “You’re right,” he says.  You frown.  It’s never been this easy before, and you didn’t think it would be with John.  Where’s his never-give-up when it comes to you?  “I’ve been meaning to find some time to talk things out, but you know how crazy it’s been.”

Of course he would want to fix things.  That’s more like it, and it soothes your ego, even if it’s not what you want.  You’ve done this so many times you’re an expert.  You can usually peg the ones who think they’ll be better off without you, who get angry instead of depressed.

“I don’t want to talk,” you tell him, and you can see the incipient confusion on his face.  And you think – but really, it was so long ago, how can you be expected to remember – you _think_ you used to find it adorable.  Used to chuckle as you smoothed a hand across his furrowed brow, kiss his frowning mouth until he laughed with you.

John puts down his fork.  He’s all focused on you and you start to wonder if maybe you misjudged, because anyone looking at this table now would be able to see that there’s something serious going on.  “It doesn’t have to be now,” he says softly and you can tell he’s hoping against hope you’re not doing what he thinks you’re doing.

You have no hope to offer him, but suddenly, you don’t think you can do it.  It’s not so much that you don’t have the heart as you don’t have the patience.  You can see this conversation dragging on as he tries to convince you and it’s already midnight.

“I’m tired, John,” you repeat, rubbing a hand over your eyes.  “I’m going up to my room.” You slide out of the booth and walk out of the restaurant without a backward glance, even though you can feel his eyes burning a hole through your back.

You bypass the elevator and take the stairs to the fifth floor room you are not sharing with John.  You may not be able to sleep, but at least you’ll be alone, which is all you want right now.  You hear footsteps behind you, but you ignore them, assuming it’s just another guest making his way to his room.  You have no idea that it’s John catching up to you until you enter your room and turn to close the door behind you.  He’s there in the doorway and this time you can’t read the expression that darkens his face.

“This is my room,” you say as he pushes past you.  “Go get your own.”  You hold the door open and gesture towards it invitingly, but let it swing shut when he makes no move to go.

You sigh and try to walk past him, but he grabs you around the waist and pulls you in.  You don’t have the energy to push him away, so you just stand there in his embrace, hoping he’ll get tired of holding on to someone who doesn’t want him.  The problem is your traitorous body does want him, isn’t bored of him the way the rest of you is.  You feel yourself relaxing in his arms, leaning into him as he kisses your neck and pulls your shirt up and over your head.

“Stop it, John.  I’m not in the mood,” you say as his hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing over your ribcage, then wrap around your back to rest on your shoulder blades.

“Let me do this for you,” he murmurs into your ear.  “You know you’ll sleep better.”  You hate that he’s right, that even if he doesn’t know your mind, he knows your body, knows its rhythms, from manic energy to crushing weariness, all of the highs and lows and the frenetic in betweens.  He knows you better than anyone has, knows when to ride out the storm and when to take the wheel and steer and you have to wonder how long it would take him to get tired of you if you didn’t get tired of him first.

When you don’t say anything, he walks you backwards until the back of your legs hit the bed.  He pushes you down until you’re sitting.  You don’t try to stop him, you just watch impassively as he takes off his own shirt, toes off his shoes, then sheds his jeans and underwear.  You remember – even though you don’t want to, you’re trying not to – you remember too many nights like this, when he got you off, held you close, watched you sleep the sleep he bought you with his body.

He stands before you naked, his erection bobbing in your face.  You wonder what he’d do if you tried to bite it off.  But you’re not bloodthirsty, you’re not angry.  You don’t even really want him to leave anymore, not as long as he doesn’t expect you to talk or do much of anything.

“Well?” he asks, because John Cena would never do anything without knowing he had your consent.

You shrug.  “You’re going to have to work for it,” you tell him.  You see him snort out a huff of air as you lever yourself backwards onto the bed and lie down.  _When do I not?_ you imagine he’s thinking.  But you don’t care, because he’s the one who always has to do things the hard way.  He’s the one who’s staying when he could just as easily have left.

You don’t move as he finishes undressing you, stopping to trail his fingertips over your skin as he goes.  You’re relaxed, but you’re not hard.  You’re tired; you’re not in the mood.  You don’t even know if you can get there, despite needing the release.

You close your eyes as he goes to work.  The obvious thing would be to go for your dick, but he avoids it as he trails kisses down your chest, hands running up and down your thighs.  His tongue traces your hipbone, then blows on the moistened skin.  You can’t deny it feels good, that it does something for you, but it’s just not enough.  Fortunately, John is nothing if not persistent, and he knows all of your hot spots, all the things that turn you on.  By the time he makes it to your nipples, you’re breathing a little harder, wishing he’d move it along.

You don’t have your piercings in, don’t really wear them all to often anymore, but your nipples are still extremely sensitive, and you groan when he presses his tongue flat against one and tweaks the other.  It’s the first sound you’ve made since he started and after teasing you for a few more minutes, John decides it’s time to get the lube.

You open your eyes as he climbs off the bed, watch him as he goes over to your bag and rummages through it as though he has every right.  His own bag is god knows where, still in the car or in a room of his own that he isn’t going to use.  As you stare at his naked ass, you can’t help but remember the first time you saw him like this.  The first time.

Over a year ago now, and a lifetime as far as you’re concerned.  You were eager then, diving in head first as you threw caution to the wind.  Discovering every part of him, everything new and exciting.  He stands and turns back around, watches you watching him and smiles at you, dimples popping.  Your breath catches in your throat, even though you’re not really sure what he’s smiling for.

He returns to the bed and sits down on the edge, still looking at you.  You can tell that he wants to kiss you, but he doesn’t.  He just gives you another smile before going back to work.  You close your eyes again as he’s squeezing lube into his palm.  You’re at half mast when he takes your cock in a hand slicked with lube.  You feel a shiver run through your body as he jerks you slowly, a tingling echoing through every part of you he’s touched tonight.  You life your arms above your head, clutch at your pillow.  You bite your lip to keep from saying his name, but you know he knows what he’s doing to you from the way you harden in his hand, lift your hips up to meet his touch.  He knows you’re ready.

He takes his hand away from you and you wait, body taut and expectant.  You hear a groan and you know he’s touching himself.  Despite trying to convince yourself you’re not interested, your eyes drift open to watch John lube himself up.  After a couple strokes, he stops and wipes his hand off on the sheets.  He climbs on top of you and you part your thighs for him, life your hips until you feel his cock poking at your entrance.  He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even seem to notice you’re looking at him as he pushes inside of you with no prep.  It doesn’t hurt, or if it does, you’re too used to it to notice.  You arch your back up off the mattress as he moves inside you and he latches onto your nipple again, sucking and laving it with his tongue.

He sets a hard pace, but you meet it, pushing back against him.  Before long, you’re panting and arching against him in earnest, your neglected erection lying heavy between you.  “John…” you gasp out before you can stop yourself.  He takes you in hand and strokes you as he thrusts deep inside you.  You wrap an arm around his back, pressing yourself as close as you can get.

“J-John,” you stutter as you squeeze your eyes shut, so close to the edge.  He captures your lips and that’s all it takes.  You’re coming, or maybe coming apart.  Stars form behind your eyelids, your muscles contract wildly, and you don’t even notice that you’re kissing him back as you ride a wave of pleasure and relief.  He buries his face in your neck seconds later, muffling a cry as he releases inside of you, setting off a round of aftershocks that leave you breathless.

When he’s finished, he pulls out of you, rolls to the side and lies next to you.  He doesn’t try to touch you or hold you.  It reminds you of how you got here to begin with and suddenly you feel heavy and leaden, not just tired, but drained.

“I was trying to break up with you, you know,” you say after a while, not really caring about his reaction anymore, or much of anything, really.

“Yeah, I know,” he answers, and you’re mildly surprised.  “If that’s what you really want, just say the word and I’ll leave now.”

 You turn away from him and say nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After writing this, I researched piercings some more and found out that nipple piercings don't last longer than a few hours without jewelry in. I am leaving this as is, though.


	2. Gunning Down Romance

When you wake up the next morning, John is in your shower.  To you, it’s a symbol of everything you did wrong the night before.  It started off simple but ended up a mess, and the kicker is that he was right.  You slept for a full six hours, and when you roll out of bed, your muscles are looser than they’ve been in days.

John Cena always has to be right.  He always has to win.  You hope he knows that this isn’t a game, and you’re not playing.  You want him out, out of your shower, out of your room and out of your life, and this time he’s not going to stop you.

You stalk into the bathroom through the door he left unlocked and jerk open the shower curtain.  “Leave,” you say before he has a chance to open his mouth.  There’s a light in his eyes when he sees you that goes out when you speak, but he steps out of the shower without a word.  You take his place under scalding water and pull the curtain closed behind you with a satisfying clink of metal rings.

As the water washes you clean, washes the reminders of last night off your body, you try to figure out what went wrong.  You’ve never been weak, never been bad at getting yourself out of a situation you don’t want to be in.  But when it came right down to it, you didn’t say the word.  You couldn’t end it.

You leave the shower none the wiser, leave the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your waist.  John is still in your room, fully dressed and fiddling with shit in his suitcase, which he somehow found the time to move into your room.

“What the fuck?” you ask him, shoving him gratuitously as you go to your own bag for something to wear.

He fixes you with a stare that echoes the irritation you’re starting to feel.  “I could ask you the same,” he says pointedly.

“I don’t want you to be here.  How hard is that to understand?”  You chuck your towel at his head and start to dress.  You don’t care if he’s looking.  Modesty and professional wrestling hardly go hand in hand.

“My limo will be here in ten.  Don’t worry.”

“I hear the lobby’s nice this time of year,” you say sarcastically as you pull a shirt over your head.  You feel like if you have to be in the same room as him for another second, you’ll hurt him.  Maybe punch him in the gut just to watch him double over in pain, then kick him while he’s down for good measure.

“Fine, fine,” he says in that placating, patronizing tone.  Like he can make everything better all on his own.  You’re not a child and it only makes you want to claw his eyes out. 

He zips up his suitcase, shoulders his backpack, and starts to go.  He gets halfway across the room before he sighs and turns around.  “Why are you doing this, Punk?”

He sounds so broken down and tired that for a second you feel like an ass.  Because it wasn’t always like this.  For a year, he was good to you, good _for_ you.  John Cena is nothing if not long suffering, and he suffered for you.  But in a flash, the anger surges back, because what are you supposed to be, grateful?  Like he didn’t have a choice in the matter?

“I’m not doing anything but facing reality,” you tell him.

He shakes his head in denial of your statement.  “We have problems, but we can fix them.  We can talk about it…”

“We can talk about it?  We never talk anymore, John.  You think it’s too crazy at work right now?  Tell me when it’s going to be better.”  You didn’t want to get into it, you just wanted to cut and run like you always do, but now that you’re talking, you can’t seem to stop. It’s like you’re cutting a promo on him, but there are no cameras here.  He looks stunned already and he doesn’t know what’s coming.  You do, and you’d stop yourself if you could.  “You think we can fix this?  What’s there to fix?  I slept with April, John.  You wanna try and fix that?”

When you finish, you feel like you’ve just run few miles and your chest heaves as you struggle to catch your breath.  John stares at you speechlessly and you wonder if he understands what you just said.

“You… with AJ?  But that’s a storyline,” he stammers, almost hopefully.  He’s always hopeful.

“What can I say?  I guess life imitates art,” you say cavalierly, though you don’t feel that way.  You’re not a little bit sick inside, and it gets worse the more you talk.

“Just tell me one thing, Phil,” he says finally.  “Just tell me why.”

The truth is you really don’t know.  You think back to that night, a couple weeks ago.  John had been off somewhere, doing Make A Wish or some kind of promotion and you and April had shared a room, stayed up late eating pizza and talking storylines. You don’t even remember who made the first move, but where John was cold and distant, she was sweet and warm.  She didn’t know you were taken and you didn’t tell her until it was over.

The truth is you’d give almost anything to take it back, to not have done it.  You regret it for so many reasons and so few of them have anything to do with him.  But he’s broken you down, taken you apart, and now only anger holds you together.  You have nothing to offer him.

“Does it really matter why?” you ask him.  You wonder what reason might make it okay in his mind.  You wonder what would happen if you told him you were in love with AJ, if he would fight for you or wish you happiness.  Would he hold a grudge because you slipped through his fingers, wanted someone else more?  But there is no one else.  You don’t have feelings for her.

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” he says with a shake of his head that looks for all the world to you like he’s giving up.

He turns and leaves then, like you wanted all along.   He leaves, but the anger doesn’t go with him.  You don’t have time to go for a run or hit the gym, so you stew all the way home.  You listen to the most raucous hardcore music you have on your iPod the whole flight and when the guy next to you asks you to turn it down, you just glare at him until he quails.  You’re six feet of solid muscle and you know you could hurt someone badly if you wanted to and you have such a well of anger inside you.

You’re scaring yourself, so when you reach your house, you change and you’re right back out the door.  You run well past the point of endurance, until your muscles are shaking and only your will power propels you home.  You collapse on your bed, fully intending on passing out and forgetting the last couple days ever happened.  But then you remember.

You remember John being here on one of his rare visits.  You remember taking him out in the city, showing him all the things you love.  Eating at your favorite restaurants, subjecting him to punk shows that he pretended to like.  And at night, you lay in this bed, trading kisses and whispering sweet nothings.  You lay your head on his chest and listened to him breath as he fell asleep.  You trembled in his arms as he made love to you.

With a wordless scream, you roll off your bed.  You strip off the sheets, toss them in the corner.   You’ll throw them in a dumpster later or maybe burn them, but right now you’re more focused on pulling your mattress off the box spring, smashing trinkets around your bedside.  Your eyes fall on your phone and you grab it and throw it against the wall without hesitation.  It shatters on contact with a satisfying crack of glass.

The sound brings you back to reality and you slide down the opposite wall until you’re sitting on the floor, trembling and exhausted, in the midst of the destruction you caused.  You close your eyes, think of John, and you start to cry.

Like they always say, the best defense is a good offense and you haven’t let yourself feel this way since maybe high school.  It’s too easy to let your heart get broken.  You’ve been the one doing the breaking all too often and you wonder if this is what it feels like, if you’re heart broken over John, because for all you wanted him gone, pushed him out, you miss him.

Over the next few days, it seems clear that he’s done with you.  You pull yourself together, buy a new bed, new sheets.   A new phone.  But he doesn’t call, doesn’t text, doesn’t even tweet stupid kayfabe shit at you.  You want to call him up, tell him why, explain yourself away until he understands, until he wants you again, but your pride stops you.  And you don’t know what you’d do with him if he did, don’t know if you could be the one to hold onto something that’s already dead.  Maybe you expected something different from him, wanted something more, but you know you did this.  You deserve this.  It doesn’t matter why.  It only matters that it’s over.

You don’t know what to expect when you walk into your hotel room on Friday afternoon, but it’s not finding John already there.  He has his shit spread out and unpacked and he’s sitting there looking like he’s settled in.  He looks up when you enter, then smiles, almost like he’s glad to see you.

“This is my room,” you say dubiously, dropping your bags and looking at your keycard.  Of course it’s the right room, it wouldn’t have worked if it wasn’t.

“It’s _our_ room,” he corrects you.  You wonder for a second if he charmed the girl at the front desk into giving him a key.  He could, he’s John fucking Cena, but you vaguely recall making a joint reservation into an already fully booked hotel a couple weeks ago.

“When’s your bus getting here?” you ask.  Yours won’t arrive until the morning.  You wonder if Kofi could be persuaded into letting you crash in his room, but you’d really rather not explain yourself.

“Tomorrow,” he says, because of course it’s tomorrow.  He doesn’t look bothered by that, and for once _you_ can’t tell what _he’s_ thinking.  You sigh and sit in the chair across from him, because what can you do, really?  You’re going to have to work with him, so you might as well get used to being around him.  Sure, you’re supposed to be feuding, but you don’t think bloody murder is what the fans are after.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he starts.  You look up sharply, but he’s staring at his hands.  “About what you said.”

You brace yourself for the worst, remind yourself that you deserve it.  You hurt April, betrayed your own principles, broke the trust you should have had with John.

“I’ve decided… that I forgive you.”  He looks up at you then, eyes bright with tremulous hope.  Always hopeful.

“You _forgive_ me?” you ask incredulously.  It’s like the world has stopped making sense.  Your heart is beating wildly and you feel your blood pressure start to rise.  You stand abruptly, but you don’t leave.  “I cheated on you, John.”

“Yeah.  You cheated on me.”  He stands too and steps into your personal space.  He doesn’t pull his punches, not John Cena.  “And I forgive you for it.”

You raise your arms to push him away, but he wraps his around your waist and pulls you in.  You struggle against him ineffectually.  He’s stronger than you are, so it’s useless even if you were really trying.  But you’re not trying, because now that he’s holding you, you realize how much you missed him, how much you still do want him.

“I forgive you,” he whispers again and you let yourself relax in his embrace.

“Why would you do that?” you ask him.

He shakes his head like it’s the most obvious thing.  “Because I love you, Phil.”

He’s said it before, only you never really believed him, always figured those words just came easy to him.  But now you have to, you can’t convince yourself otherwise, because he’s seen the worst in you.  He’s set his heart on you and you think maybe you can live with that, at least for now.

There are tears in your eyes as he kisses you and for once, you’re glad you failed.


	3. The Past Is Gone

It’s been half a week since you stepped onto this roller coaster ride and you have to wonder what’s changed.  On Monday night you tried to end things and on Friday you’re still sitting across a table from him, watching him eat.  By now, you can practically order for him and he knows better than to ask if you want anything.

In a way, it’s symptomatic of what your relationship has become, of everything you wanted out of.  You’re always following in John’s wake, doing the things he does just for a chance to be with him and he doesn’t even seem to notice anymore.  You almost wish you had it in you for another go around, another chance to run this cart off the rails, but by now you know you were only fooling yourself into thinking you were done with him.

You haven’t talked.  Not since he forgave you, not since he said he loved you and you believed him.  The show must go on, after all, and you’re both too professional to bring your problems to work.  You don’t know what you would have said, anyway.  You never expected to be in this situation again, thought that your infidelity had accomplished what your disinterest hadn’t.  Now you’re both just spinning your wheels, trying to avoid figuring out what comes next.

He’s the one who starts the conversation.  He has to be, because you’re sure you would just drift along this way forever if given half a chance, sit across from him in a thousand different diners on a thousand different nights, because you don’t know how else to do this.

“Can you tell me one thing?” he asks, setting his fork down.  “One question, and I promise I’ll never mention it again.”  He doesn’t have to say what “it” is, and frankly you’ve been expecting this.

“I don’t _know_ why,” you say, because that’s the one question he asked when you told him and you’ve been searching for an answer too, something you can tell yourself and be satisfied.  You can come up with so many reasons, but ultimately none at all.

“That’s not it,” he says, shaking his head.  You remember him agreeing that it didn’t matter why, but that was when you thought you were over and his forgiveness puts a whole new spin on things.  You wonder how he could possibly not care, why he’d leave it at just one question, and not that one, when he could make you suffer for it.

“Just-- you weren’t going to tell me?”  He doesn’t phrase it as a question, though it clearly is one.  You hear the unspoken question too, because you both know you had no intention of telling him.

“No,” you answer with a sigh.  “I was going to leave you anyway, John.  Why make it worse?”  You’re blunt, but you figure he deserves your honesty.  You didn’t want to hurt him more than you had to, then you wanted to hurt him as much as you could.  Now you’re past that and all you want is for him to know the truth.

He nods like you just told him something he expected to hear, which is funny to you, because you have exactly zero idea what John Cena expects from you.  “Okay.  I can respect that.”

You almost snort at the sound of that word.  Respect.  Your life is getting to be way too much like your job these days and you hate that he still has to look for reasons to respect you.  You’ve always respected him, and while you came from nothing, you think - you hope - that you’re far from nothing now.  And maybe that’s the problem, that you’ve never been quite convinced yourself.

You lapse into silence again and when you ask if you can go a few minutes later, he agrees without hesitation.  Before long, you’re back in the room you’re sharing.  It should probably seem strange that after a year of dating, you’ve never officially shared.  It should probably seem symbolic.  But with his schedule, your sleeping habits, and the company breathing down both your necks, it never seemed practical.

John stands in the middle of the room, looking back and forth between the beds.  You can tell what he’s thinking, but you’ve never minded sharing a bed with him and you don’t really see why you should start now.  You walk over to him, loop your arms around his waist.  For once, he’s the one standing still in your embrace as you lean in for a kiss.  Your lips meet tentatively, once, then again.  He lifts a hand to your shoulder and lets it rest there, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck as he opens his mouth against yours.  As you stand there, bodies barely touching, you feel like you’re being pulled in by an undertow.  You can’t remember the last time you kissed like this, or if you ever did.

“I want this to work,” you murmur against his lips, forehead bowed.  You say the words almost before you feel the feeling.  It passes through you in a shudder, this desperate longing for him, makes you cling in a way you’ve always hated.  You can feel your heartbeat pulse in your chest as you step in until you can’t get any closer, press your face into the cotton of his t-shirt.  You breathe in his warmth as his arms wrap around you, hold you close.

“Come to bed,” he beckons, his voice low and seductive.  You know it won’t fix things, but still you can’t resist.  You let him walk you to the bed on the right, sit you down as he moves around the room, turning off the lights until only the dim glow of the lamp across the room is left.  He walks back to you, holds out both his hands and you take them and let him pull you up.  He kisses you gently, as if you could break, and just then you feel as though you might.

You undress each other in silence, then he pulls back the covers for you.  You slide into the bed, wondering if he’s ever done anything this romantic for you.  John can be thoughtful, even sweet, but he’s never treated you like a thing to be treasured before, and if you’re honest with yourself, you never would have wanted him to.  You’re not so sure now.

He gets in after you and pulls the covers up.  He lies on his side and looks at you for a long moment, almost long enough for you to wonder if he’s planning on doing anything.  Then he reaches over, places a hand on your hip.  His thumb brushes over your hipbone and you feel a rush of warmth pool in your groin.  He leans in and kisses you, your lips and his hand your only two points of contact.  You can see the love he claims for you in his eyes, in the way he touches you.  The feeling from before passes over you again and you shiver.  You want this to work so badly.

Maybe thinking you’re cold, John pulls you closer.  He wraps his arm around your waist and your knees bump up against each other’s.  Suddenly, you can’t stand this passivity, this waiting for him to take the lead.  It wasn’t always like this, but at some point you just got tired and that isn’t who you want to be anymore.  You roll him over so he’s on his back and you’re on top of him.He doesn’t try to stop you, just settles his hands on your hips and looks up at you. You can’t resent it, because this was never about what he took so much as what you gave up.

“What do you want from me?” you ask him.

“I want to feel you inside me,” he says and presses down on your hips so your erection brushes against his.  You can’t help the groan you let out, both at his words and the sensation.  It wasn’t what you were asking, but it’s good enough for now.

He doesn’t look nervous as you reach for the lube, though you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve done this with him.  He told you you were the first, the night after Wrestlemania as you lay wrapped up in each other on the bed in your tour bus, and you felt powerful and you felt humbled.  You felt so close to him that night.  You know being on top isn’t the same as being in control, but you want to feel that way again.

You kiss his chest, then his collarbone, as your slicked fingers find their way to his entrance.  He’s tight, but he lets you in easily, doesn’t resist the intrusion.  You watch his face as you stretch him out, his expression transfixed by pleasure and almost vulnerable.  The lamp flickers and for a second you imagine his face in candlelight, the play of shadows constantly shifting over those familiar features, rendering them mysterious and exotic.

“Punk,” he says in a guttural whisper, moving back against you.  You kiss his neck, then his jawbone.  Then you kiss his lips as you withdraw your fingers.  He makes a low keening sound at the loss and you kiss him again as you position yourself above him.  He touches your face, looks into your eyes, but doesn’t say anything.  You look back at him as you enter him, watch a combination of pain and ecstasy wash over his face.  It’s that, more than what you feel yourself, that gets to you.

Inside him, you still your body, and before you really know what you’re doing, you’re making nonsensical shushing noises at him.  He moves his hands over your back, stroking, almost as if he’s trying to calm you.  You drop your head to his chest and start to move.  You focus on every sound, every movement of his body and wonder if this is how he feels, caring only about you.  You’re not sure you like it, how you lose yourself in him, in his every sigh, every breathy moan, but you’re too far gone now.  You stay in this haze, in this place where you’re not even sure who you are, until your name tumbles off his lips.  He trembles, his muscles fluttering around you, his cock pulsing in your hand.  He comes and so do you, because there is no you, just him.  “Phil,” he says.  “Phil, phi, phil,” he repeats under his breath as a mantra.  It passes over you like a wave, washes you out and when it recedes there is nothing.

Time passes unheeded as you lie on top of him, completely wrecked.  Eventually, you pull out of him and roll to the side, but you don’t let go of him, don’t let him go for a second without your skin touching his.  He surprises you by wrapping an arm around you and pressing his face to your chest.  You hold him and he seems lost, afraid, but that’s not the John Cena you know.

“Why don’t you want to ask why?” you ask him, the words bubbling up before you know where they come from. He promised not to bring it up, but you didn’t, and you need to know.  You just can’t move past it.

He’s quiet for a while, but you wait, because you know he’s not asleep.  “Because I already know,” he says, his voice thick and heavy.  _Then tell me, please,_ you think desperately.  And he does.  “I wasn’t there for you.  I wasn’t the man you needed me to be.”

You wonder if you should be angry that he’s taking credit for a failing in you, or if he’s even right.  Because he’s not the first person who ever disappointed you and you never cheated before, you just left.  But you can’t leave John, you tried and you failed, and even though you didn’t realize that until weeks later, you wonder if maybe part of you knew it even then.  Your stomach turns and you wish you hadn’t asked, because you didn’t want to know that, not about yourself or about him or about your relationship.  You wanted to feel close to him, and here he lies in your arms, but you feel far away from everything.

You want to tell yourself that it will be okay, but you know better. You went into this blinded by infatuation, by things that don’t last.  You mistook it for love, like you have your whole life, but now you know love is so much more than that.  You know it because you feel it now, that there are things you need even if they don’t make you happy, things you can’t get rid of even though they weigh you down.  There are things you want from him and want to give to him and it’s all such a jumble in your mind and in your heart.

You breathe in and then out again.  You think that if you could just sort it all out, you could make it work, but you can’t tell habit from desire, dependence from trust, or loneliness from love, not when you’re this close to him.  You want this to work, but you know that it can’t.  Not like this.

For now, for tonight, you tighten your arms around him, hold him close.  He reciprocates, throwing a leg over yours and shifting himself until there’s no space between you, not even air.  You can tell now that he feels it too, and you’re grateful that you won’t have to tell him, sick because you miss him already.  Heartbroken.


	4. A Whimsical Lie

Space.  That’s what you tell him you need and that’s what he agrees to give you.  As much space as you can have in this fishbowl of an industry. You still see him. You still work with him.  You’re just not _with_ him anymore, or not like you used to be, anyway.

You’ve never done this before and you really don’t want to be the guy who says he wants space but really just means I don’t want you.  But how could you be, when you tried to leave and tried to stay, but ultimately couldn’t do either?  You do want John, and that’s the problem, and this is supposed to be the solution.

In some ways, it’s surprisingly easy.  You always acted this way in public, like you’re just friends and not even close ones.  It doesn’t hurt you to exchange pleasantries with John in front of people who never knew.  Except how could they not, it’s not like you were friendly with him before, it’s not like he ever said one word to you.  You wonder at the stupidity of people, of your coworkers who never noticed you were sleeping with John Cena and who don’t know that you aren’t anymore.  You’re a private person, it’s not like you want your dirty laundry aired for all to see.  But sometimes, especially now, you just wish he’d wrap his arms around you, lean his chin against your shoulder, dare people to say something about it.  Or just reach across a table, hold your hand.  And smile.  Smile that smile he gives you in private that melts your insides and makes you forget you’re bitter and jaded.

Or maybe you’re not bitter anymore.  Maybe that was only what you were like before John.  Before your infamous pipe bomb promo.  The change in your career and in your life go hand in hand and you never quite realized how closely.  You tell the fans you’re still the same guy, but if success didn’t change you, something did.  You were angry at the world, dissatisfied, unhappy, and you’re different now.  You’re a better man and if he didn’t cause the change, at least he was a part of it.  He took you over with smiles and laughter, with his goofy charm, and now you’re not sure who you are without him.

For the first week, that’s what you try to figure out.  You try to remember what your life was like before him, how you passed the hours before John was there to fill them, to text when you got bored, call when you couldn’t sleep, curl up next to after a long day.  It’s hard to remember there were anything but good times when he’s not with you, times when you couldn’t stand the sight of him, when every word from his mouth was like poison in your veins.  But more than that were the times you hated yourself for who you were with him, how you just let him take up space in your life.  Eventually, you figure it doesn’t matter who you are or who you were.  The only thing that counts is who you want to be.  And you want to be someone you respect, someone John respects.  Not just someone he can love, but someone he can call an equal.

During the second week, you throw yourself into work. You do interview after interview until you can hardly remember who’s asking the questions.  You’re sure you say dozens of inappropriate things that will come back to bite you in the ass, but then you always do.  You autograph pictures until your hand feels like it’s going to fall off, and just to throw John for a loop, you show up and hug a couple of his Make-A-Wish kids, let them pose with your title.  The look of surprise he gives you is precious and you wish you had a camera to record it.  The truth is you’ve always liked kids, always imagined yourself with some one day, but that’s not a place you want your mind to go when it comes to John.

Late that night, blind with fatigue and so tired of doing the same old shit to keep yourself busy, you dial his number before you can stop yourself.  It’s past 3 am, but he answers when you call.  He always has.

“Punk,” he mumbles sleepily, and you can just see him rubbing his eyes in the dark of his room. “One of those nights?”

“I just need to hear your voice,” you say, clutching your phone almost too hard.  It is one of those nights, and you’re scared of the things you might say to him.

“Lie down,” he commands, and you find yourself obeying.  You’re tense, wired, pulled in so many directions you feel scattered to the wind, but he eases something in you that you can’t explain.

He talks to you about nothing, about football, which he knows you hate, about his brothers’ kids and about cabins in Maine.  You lose track eventually and you hover at the edge of sleep.  He sighs into the phone and says, “You did good today, Phil.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t think he expects you to, maybe doesn’t even realize you’re still awake.  You think, _I didn’t do it for you_ , but it warms you just the same, this feeling that he’s proud of you.  You fall asleep thinking maybe you survived without him, but why should you have to anymore?

Neither one of you mentions the call the next time you see each other. You’re in the trainer’s room waiting to be checked out before the show when he walks in, and you should have expected to see him, but it hits you like a brick wall.  You just stare, your eyes wide, and you want nothing more than for him to walk over and kiss you, but even if you were still together, he wouldn’t do it, not here.  He leaves without saying anything and you’re both better prepared next time.

You spend the third week missing him like crazy, but something stops you from going to him, telling him you’re ready to be with him.  You know you aren’t, that you’ll just ruin it again.  You won’t have a future and you know now that you want a future with John.

You never believed there’d be just one person for you, one person you’d want to be with and build your life around, so maybe that’s where you went wrong, why you ended every relationship you ever had, but he’s different.  He’s making a believer of you and you try to imagine yourself five years from now, ten years from now, and John at your side, but all you see is more years of the same, anonymous hotel rooms, always going home alone, and no one ever knowing.

You try to distract yourself by going on another juice fast, hope the hunger pangs will take your mind off of him, but you can’t help but think of how he teased you, ridiculed you, last time, then drove ten miles out of his way to get you kale juice with blueberries.  It was vile but you drank it anyway and he refused to kiss you for hours afterwards.  You laughed together and he promised never to do it again.

You’re sitting alone in catering on Monday evening when he sits down across from you and pushes a cup to the center of the table.

“What’s that?” you ask suspiciously as your mind tries to process the fact that he’s talking to you.

“Pumpkin,” he says, sounding dubious but almost gleeful at the same time.  You suspect it amuses him to torture you with concoctions he’d never consume himself.

“So much for promises,” you say with a shake of your head, not sure if you mean the juice or your space, but really, you don’t mind either way.

You reach out, but instead of taking the cup, you grab his hand.  You almost expect him to pull away, to look around the room to see who might be watching, but he justs looks at you and smiles.  He smiles at you and you melt, like you always have.  You pull away and take the juice.  It’s not so bad, so you drink it, if only to stop yourself from reaching across the table again, kissing him until everyone really is watching, maybe dragging him back to your locker room.

He sits there with you for a few minutes longer, saying nothing as you drink your pumpkin juice.  You consider asking where he got it, but for all you know he'll tell you he’s personal friends with Harry Potter and it just appeared by magic.  Then before you can decide you really do want to know, to know how far out of his way he went for this, he says he has to go.  He walks around the table as he leaves, brushes his fingertips over your shoulder as he walks past you. It's hard to stop yourself from touching the place his hand was.

You do a phone interview half an hour later and when the guy asks if you’re in a relationship, because they always ask that question, you say yes.  You don’t think before you say it, but it feels right, so you repeat that information in every interview you give for the next week with a sense of blind recklessness.  If they ask for more, you bullshit them until they change the subject.  You’re an expert at that, at answering questions with empty sentences that are true but irrelevant and nobody’s ever the wiser.

It’s almost a game, to see how far you can go without lying, without saying the word “girlfriend.”  You’re playing chicken with the media, with the internet, and you’re not even sure if John knows, because he has his own press to do, has too much self respect to read the dirt sheets.  It’s a game you’re winning until Saturday morning.  You’re taping a radio show and the woman -- of course it’s a woman -- gets into the relationship stuff, asks if it’s serious.  You say yes and you're preparing the standard brush off when you hear yourself utter the pronoun “he.” 

You sit there in a stunned panic and somewhere in your mind you know that if you’d just kept talking, everything would have been fine.  You’ve joked about having a boyfriend before, but that was just joking and this is real, this could ruin not only your life, but John’s, because you don’t trust yourself not to spill that too, not the way you’ve been going.  Dimly, you’re aware of them cutting the tape, going back to the point before your gaffe.  The interviewer asks the question again and you’re not sure what you say, but it must be okay because nobody’s freaking out anymore except you.

You float through the rest of the day, a hazy sense of unreality following you around.  You’ve never been one to phone it in at a house show, but you’re not really sure what you do that night, or if the crowd even cheers.  All you can think about is the future.  The future you want to build around John, only now you’re not sure he’ll want one with you. You always thought it would end someday, and maybe that’s why you acted the way you did, how you could hurt him.  But now you’re thinking about the things you might never have, the things you always wanted, because now you know that they’re nothing if you don’t have them with him.

You wait for him outside his bus later that night and ask if you can ride with him.  He lets you in without question. He’s been shooting you worried looks all day and he’s probably dying to know what’s up. 

It’s been a month since you’ve been alone with him and when the doors close behind you, it’s like the air is being sucked out of your lungs.  There’s barely enough space for the two of you, or it seems that way, but you’re sick of space anyway. You don’t want it anymore, you just want him, want him in all the days and hours and minutes of your life.  You want him whether he makes you happy or not, whether he fits or just gets in your way.

That’s why you don’t consider not telling him.  Because if nothing else, he deserves honesty from you, and you’ll give it to him even if it’s the only thing you can give him.  But as you sit down on the sofa in his bus, you’re not sure how to tell him, exactly what to say.  He goes over to his mini-fridge, hands you a bottle of water and takes one for himself.  You roll yours between your hands as he sits down next to you.

“So, I hear you have a girlfriend,” he starts, maybe thinking that’s a safe topic.

“I never said that,” you say almost a bit too sharply.  You squeeze the water bottle until the plastic crinkles under your hands.

“I know you didn’t,” he says, giving you a confused look.  “I looked up the transcripts.”

You guess that answers that question, he does know, cares enough to check.  But you have to wonder if it was jealousy or suspicion that made him do it, or just curiosity.

“I am such a fucking _moron_ ,” you say, eyes firmly on the floor.  The bus jerks to life and your stomach lurches in answer.  John doesn’t say anything, just waits for you to continue.  “This morning, I practically told this woman on the radio that I have a boyfriend.  They edited it out, but...” You shrug helplessly.

“You know,” he starts slowly after a long silence.  “I never realized you wanted people to know.”

You look up at him and all he looks is thoughtful.  “I don’t,” you say.  “Not the world, anyway.  Sometimes, I just wish we could touch, or hold hands, or just... you know?”

“I know,” he answers, and you can see he does, can see for once that maybe he suffers the same things you do.

“You’re not going to yell at me, or get angry?” you ask him.  He should be angry.  Maybe you didn’t tell anyone _he_ was your boyfriend, just that you had one, but it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump from CM Punk to John Cena.

He reaches out and takes your hand in his.  It’s cold from the water and his is warm.  You can feel the syncopated beat of your heart in your chest, the turning of your stomach.  Your head is starting to ache.  “Could I make you feel worse than you already do?”

“Yes,” you answer, though you’d like to say no.  But you know that as bad as you feel right now, there’s a whole lot of downhill from here.

“Then I won’t do it.”  He squeezes your hand, then lets it go.  “You’re tired,” he says, touching your face, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone.  “Go lie down and I’ll get you something to eat.”

You want to tell him you’re not hungry, or you’re not tired, or you don’t want to be coddled, but you don’t have the energy for any of those things.  You’re not sure how you feel right now except sick and you want John to take care of you.  If he wants you, if he doesn’t, that can wait until tomorrow.  You head into the bedroom, take your shoes off, and lie down.  In the quiet, in the dark, your head lying on a pillow that smells like him, you close your eyes and for the first time in a month, you don’t worry about the future.


	5. Beyond What I Can Lose

You wake up groggy and disoriented in a place you don’t expect to find yourself and it takes you a minute to remember what happened, to place yourself in John’s bus.  You relax when it comes to you, and you feel a sense of relief that you can still be here after everything.  You glance at the clock on the wall and you’re surprised to find that it’s been nearly four hours since you lay down. 

You remember that John promised you food.  You’re not hungry, but you do wonder where he went, because it’s not like him not to follow through.  You roll out of bed and stumble into the main section of the bus.  Most of the lights are out, and John is on the couch, sitting upright, his eyes closed and head tilted back.

The sight of him, unaware and vulnerable, fills you with a tenderness that you’re completely unprepared for and you just stand there in the doorway as it washes over you.  You don’t think you make a sound, but he opens his eyes and looks at you.  “Hey, you’re awake,” he says, his voice softened by sleep, a smile playing at his lips.

You suck in a breath as your stomach clenches in a way that you’re not used to.  It’s not just that it’s been a while, or that you feel differently than you did before.  You’re aware, somewhere in your sleep fogged brain, that you’ve never really felt like you deserve him, whether you treat him well or not.

“You okay?” he asks when you don’t say anything.

“Yeah,” you say, shaking yourself out of it.  “Yeah, I just think I’m coming down with something.”

And it’s true, you realize as you cross the room and sit down next to him, fit your body to his.  Now that you’re not pushing yourself beyond reason, you can recognize that you feel more run down than usual.  You thought maybe it was just your emotions getting to you, or the stress of the job, but now, as John wraps his arms around you and you press your forehead to his shoulder, you can acknowledge it’s more than that.

He pulls you close, touches your face with the back of his hand.  “You don’t feel hot,” he says, relief in his voice.  Sickness is the last thing any of you can afford, especially you or John.

“No?  Must just be the bus I got run over by, then.”  Part of you still hopes it’s just that, you feeling your matches more than usual, but realistically, a cold is the best you can hope for.

John wraps his other arm around your back, leans in and kisses the top of your head.  “Did you get the plate?  I’ll track it down and take care of it for you.”

“My hero,” you mumble into his shirt. 

You’ve never needed anyone to protect you, always preferred to stand up for yourself, but there’s something so calming, so peaceful, about being here in his arms.  He makes you feel safe in a world that’s full of dangers, cares for you in a way that so few people have.  He looks past what you say you want and manages to see what you really need.  This is the John you want, the one you missed, and you realize for the first time that while he gives you his all, you’re not sure what you ever gave him in return, if you’ve changed him, made _him_ better.  If you’ve done anything but hurt him.

You pull back reluctantly and look him in the eye.  You’ve barely spoken in the past four weeks, and that was after you tried to break up with him, told him you cheated on him.  It doesn’t even matter why anymore, all that matters is that he forgave you when you never even asked him to.

“I never said I was sorry, did I?” you ask, swallowing the lump that’s suddenly  in your throat.

“No.  You never did.”  He’s only acknowledging a truth you both already know, but you feel condemnation in his tone and in his words.

“Well, I am.  I’m sorry for all the shitty things I ever did to you, John.”

John dips his head in acknowledgment, his expression strangely pained.  You know in that moment that he never expected to hear those words from you, and yet he was prepared to love you anyway, to live a life without the kind words and soft things you find so hard to say.

You’ve always believed in honesty, in owning up to your mistakes, always believed that apologies were just a way of rationalizing bad behavior.  You wonder now if there was anything you ever truly regretted before, because you never realized how just saying those words could change you, could change someone else, could heal wounds you caused.

You lean into him again, wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his chest. He runs his hands over your back in a soothing gesture, though whether it’s meant for you or for him, you're not sure.

“I’m sorry too,” he says after a while.  You wonder what he thinks he has to be sorry for, and maybe he knows you well enough to know what you’re thinking.  “I’m sorry that I took you for granted.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”  You feel him move against you, as if he’s shaking his head clear of the past. “Mostly I’m sorry I never told you what I want from you.”

“What do you want from me, John?”  You’ve asked this question before, when you were searching for your own reasons, your own answers.  It’s harder to ask it now, when you know what you want from him, what you can lose.

“Everything,” he says simply, a calm certainty in his voice.  Your arms tighten around him convulsively and your heart pounds in your chest.  It’s exactly what you wanted to hear, but while he’s calm, you’re terrified.  You thought you were afraid of him not wanting you anymore, but you never considered the alternative and you are, once again, completely unprepared.  And you’re dimly aware that if he had told you before, it would have sent you running.  You’re grateful he never did, as much as it might hurt him to know it.  You let go of him, press the heel of your hand to your head, because these racing thoughts are making it hurt.

“Hey,” John says, pulling back to peer into your face.  “Are you feeling alright?  Do you want to go lie down again?”

You blink at him a couple times and starbursts of light form behind your eyelids.  “Yeah, I think so,” you say unsteadily.  Then you remember how you found him, asleep on the couch.  “I don’t want to steal your bed from you, though, I could call my driver, meet up with my bus...”

“No,” he says almost too quickly.  “Stay here, please.”  His eyes plead with you and it's too hard to resist when you want the same thing.

“Will you stay with me?” you ask.  You don’t mean to sound needy, but that’s the way your voice comes out.

He nods wordlessly.  As he stands, you wonder if you expect too much of him.  But you don’t want to feel guilty, can’t feel guilty, for the things he gives you of his own free will, when you ask for so little.  You take his hand, allow him to lead you back into the bedroom.

He goes into the bathroom and you walk over to the dresser and pull open a drawer.  Your drawer, you realize with a start, and you’re not sure how you never noticed how much of your shit you’ve been keeping here, nearly as much as on your own bus.  You close the drawer, go instead for John’s clothes, pick out one of his oversized shirts and a pair of flannel pajama pants.

As you change, you think of the women you’ve dated, how they loved to steal your things, dress themselves in clothes that belonged to you.  You never saw yourself as that kind of guy, but here you are, wearing your boyfriend’s clothes, seeking comfort and succor in his things, trying to mark yourself as his.  You wonder at the psychology of it, because you know it never worked on you.  Still, you feel better like this.

You sit on the bed and lean against the wall, draw your knees to your chest as you wait for him.  You’re dead tired, but you don’t want to fall asleep without him.  After a minute, he walks out of the bathroom wearing just his boxers.  He raises his eyebrow when he sees you, and you see a gleam of possessiveness in his eyes, feel an answering swell of satisfaction in you.  It’s been too long and you can tell he wants you now, but even if you were up to it, you know you can’t go there with him, not until things are settled.

He turns the light off and climbs into the bed and you slide down under the sheets.  You both move around a bit as you get yourself settled.  “Can I?” he asks, touching your arm with his fingertips.

“I don’t want to puke on you or anything,” you say, at least part seriously.  “But sure.”

He shrugs and moves closer.  “I’ll take my chances.”

As you lie there in his arms, you think about time and change.  About what you want now, and for the future.  And the past, when you were so lonely, so sick of taking a backseat to everything else in his life that you convinced yourself you weren’t interested in him anymore.  That you avoided him, distanced yourself.  Found comfort elsewhere, or tried to.  You think of all the petty things inside of you, of bitterness you harbor and grudges you hold, and wonder if there is something you need to forgive him or forgive yourself, let go of and forget.

You place your hand over his, try to still the racing thoughts that never let you sleep, no matter how tired you get.  “I don’t know how you forgive so easily,” you say, because you don’t want to keep the hurts inside anymore, to keep yourself from him.

His hand tightens around a fistful of your shirt, but he doesn’t answer, not for a long time.  “It’s not easy,” he says, just when you’re beginning to think he won’t say anything.  “It’s just the choice I make.  I could be hurt or angry, but I don’t want to live in that place, so I choose to move past it.  With you.”

“But you have other options.  You could leave me.” You don’t want to convince him that he should, but you have to know why he chooses the hard way, if you can do the same.

“I’m in love with you, Phil.  I’m not ready to give up.  I can’t change the way you feel, but everything I can do, I will.  And I can be here for you, I can forgive you for your mistakes.  I can give you the love you need when you’re hurting.”

It’s not the first time you’ve been confronted with the type of person John Cena is.  You’ve always known that he gives his all for the things he cares about, so you don’t know why you resist the notion that he feels that way about you.  But it just always seems so easy for him when feels so hard to you, and in a way, you’re glad to know you hurt him, glad to know that he cares and he struggles.  But you don’t want to hurt anymore, not him or yourself.  You don’t want to be the guy who ruins all the good things in his life.

“You can change me, John,” you say, turning your head to look at him.  “We can change everything.”

It’s dark and you can only make out the outline of his face.  You’re sure he can see no more of yours, but he exhales slowly and relaxes against you. You immediately feel lighter, as though a weight has been lifted off you.

He leans in and kisses your forehead, then your lips.  You want to stop him, tell him he doesn’t want to risk making himself sick, but it’s the first time you’ve kissed in a month and it’s over in a second anyway.

“Sleep,” he murmurs in your ear.  “Sleep, and I’ll take care of you.”

You close your eyes and this time hardly think about anything.  John is here where you are, and while there may be work to do and a long way to go, you think maybe you can get there.  You can do this, choose him.

“I love you,” you mumble, or think you do, but maybe you’re asleep already.


	6. Leave It All Behind

You dream of John.

It's the middle of the summer and you’ve been out running.  Sweat is streaming down your back and your chest and the ends of your hair fall in your face.  You walk through catering on your way to your locker room because you know John is there and you love to tease him.

There are other people in the room, but that doesn’t stop him from grabbing you as you pass, hauling you against his body as he kisses you.  “God, you are so hot,” he whispers in your ear.  When he pulls away, his shirt is stained with your sweat, and it appeals to something primal in you.  He walks away without another word and you follow after him.

In his dressing room, he locks the door behind you, strips off his shirt and pulls you into his arms again.  You lean back against the door as he kisses you, your body exhausted but your mind humming with energy.  Your skin slides against his as you pull him closer. This is more than you bargained for, but you want him here, now, and you can tell he feels the same.

He pulls back, turns you around, pushes you against the door again.  He reaches around you, palms your erection through your shorts.  As you arch into his touch, your nipples make contact with the door and you let out a moan you’re sure can be heard on the other side.

“Fuck, John,” you force out as he strokes you slowly.  “There’s probably someone out there, waiting for you to autograph something or give a sound bite or some shit...”

He grinds against you, his body a wall of solid muscle against your back, runs his tongue along the column of your neck, sucks on the patch of skin just behind your ear.  “They’ll just have to wait,” he growls, breath hot against your skin.  “I’m fucking my boyfriend right now.”

His words light a fire in you and you reach back to grab his neck, twist your head to kiss him.  You weren’t suggesting he stop, just move somewhere a little less exposed, but you love him like this, when he claims you as his own, wants nothing more than to have you.  You think you’d let him do anything to you, to your body, just to have that.

“Then fuck me, John,” you say, letting go of him.  You push your shorts down over your hips, bare your ass to him.  He groans and pushes you back against the door and you brace your hands against it to keep yourself steady.  He steps back for a second to unbutton his jeans and you can’t help the sound of frustration that escapes you.  Somewhere in your mind, you feel like it’s been forever, even though you know he went down on you that morning after you spent the night on his bus.

“Hold on,” he says to you, and your fingers press against the door, scrape against the wood grain veneer, as he grabs your hips and pushes into you.  You bite down hard on your lip to keep yourself from screaming, because you never know who’s wandering around out there with what kind of recording equipment.  He wraps his hand around your cock, jerks you off as he thrusts into you.  It burns and it hurts and you have to fucking wrestle tonight, but you don’t want him to stop.

The door rattles in its frame, and you just hope it will hold, but you’re too far gone to care, to really think about the consequences.  Your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself upright.  John’s movements get wilder, more erratic, as you push back against him, needing more, and more, and harder.  Needing to feel him inside of you, needing him to leave a mark on you to say where you belong.

“John-”  His name tears itself from your throat, begging, pleading, loud in the confines of the cheap pre-fab room.  He bites down on the corded muscles in your neck as he comes inside you, his hand gripping your hip with bruising intensity.

And you wake up.

You wake up gasping and panting as you come in his hand, your body trembling, aching as the remnants of the dream cling to you.  You can almost feel yourself slump against the door, John’s arms around your middle, supporting you as he pulls you to the sofa to collapse in a mess of sweat and come, pain and exhaustion and bliss, wrapped in his arms and in his love.

And it’s real.  At least part of it is real, because you’re in his bed, in his arms, and you’re hot and sweaty, sticky and uncomfortable, but so utterly, exquisitely, satisfied.  You open your eyes to the glow of daylight coming in through the windows and smile as you stretch and turn to face John.  He’s watching you almost sheepishly and you feel yourself flush.  It’s been so long since you’ve been embarrassed about anything, much less sex, that you have a hard time understanding your reaction.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, sotto voce.

“Right now?  I feel fucking amazing.”  In fact, you’re having trouble remembering that you’re supposed to be under the weather, and almost as much trouble remembering you didn’t mean to fool around with him.  How you thought this would complicate things, you’re not sure, because in this moment, everything seems so clear.

“That must have been some dream,” he says with a grin.  His eyes crinkle at the corners with humor and you want to kiss him senseless and tell him all about your dream, let him reenact it on you.

“Did I dream you putting your hand down my pants?” you ask instead.

Technically, his hand is still down your pants, settled on the curve of your ass like it belongs there, and who are you to argue, maybe it does.  You’re in too good a mood to quibble, you’re feeling coy and flirtatious, and it’s just the kind of mood that so often gets you in trouble.

He blushes and his sheepishness returns in full force.  “I guess we shouldn’t have done that.”

“We?” you ask with an elaborately raised eyebrow and a deliberate glance at the wet spot on the front of his boxers.  “ _I_ was asleep.”

He shakes his head and chuckles, because you’re no more guileless than you used to be, and you do know what you must’ve been doing in your sleep.  You’ve done it plenty of times before and woken up to him dealing with the results of your wet dreams.  Far from being upset, you’re glad of the release your body can give him, nearly smug, though you know you had little to do with it, because you were asleep.

“We should talk, though,” you say seriously, as surprised as you are to hear those words come out of your mouth.  “I have a lot to say.”

“Only good things?” he asks.  You swear you can see something nervous, apprehensive, in his eyes and you wonder if you really said what you thought you did last night, or if he heard you.  You’re tempted to say it again now, but you don’t want to start something you’re not prepared to finish. And there’s something else, too, a reluctance borne on an edge of panic.  You’ve never said those words before and meant them quite like this.

You raise your hand, lay it on his cheek.  He swallows hard and there’s something so achingly vulnerable about him right now.  You know now, like never before, that you have the power to break him with a word and all you want is to protect him.  You move your hand to the back of his head, pull him in until your foreheads are touching.  “Only good things,” you answer.

You’d stay like this forever if you could, but he has things to do, a busy day ahead of him.  You’re free for a change, because your PA canceled all your shit after yesterday’s debacle, told you to get your head screwed on straight before Monday. He leaves the bed reluctantly, showers and gets dressed as you lie there and wait your turn.  You agree to meet him later for lunch, and then he’s gone.

In his shower, surrounded by the lingering scent of his body wash, you look at the ink on your arms and your chest and think about marking yourself as his.  You’ve always said the worst thing you could do is tattoo someone’s name on your body, because you’d only end up regretting it, the constant reminder of someone you used to love but couldn’t care less about now.  But you want to be reminded, want to brand yourself with the knowledge that you felt this way once.  If you ever leave John, you want to regret it for the rest of your life.

It’s not like you can just put his name on your body for everyone to see, you know that.  Still, you want to do something, something you’ll know about and understand, and that’s what you think about for the rest of the morning instead of worrying over what you’re planning on saying later.  None of the big moments in your life have been planned and you like it better that way, knowing that when the words come, they might not be right, but at least they're real.

You pass the time by cleaning John’s bus, changing his sheets, gathering his laundry to have sent out, putting things away.  That only gets you so far, though, and before the morning is half over you’re bored of yourself, but don’t really feel like being around people.  You end up in the stands of the arena, watching the production guys start to get things set up. 

You wonder what you’d be saying if you were doing media right now, if you are prepared to go back out there tomorrow, to be mature and responsible.  To be the face of the company.  You doze off thinking these maudlin thoughts, and when you wake up, John is standing in front of you.  You blink, almost sure you’re imagining him, because he’s in his ring gear, complete with knee pads.

“They wanted some updated photos,” he says with a shrug.  “I was about to head back out, but I saw you up here and I wanted to see how you were.”

“Could be worse,” you say.  He keeps looking at you and you sigh.  “Tired.  Cold.  I have a killer headache and my throat is a bit scratchy.”

“Was that so hard?” he asks with a shake of his head.  He leans back, pulls something of the row of seats behind him and drops it in your lap.  It’s your blue hoodie, your current favorite. He smiles at you and walks away without another word.  It wasn't hard at all, so you wonder why you resisted telling him.

You drift off again and when your phone goes off a while later and jerks you awake, you almost think you dreamed it, but your hands are clutching at the sweatshirt like it’s a security blanket.

You spend the rest of the morning lying on the sofa in your bus, staring at the TV.  You know there are a million things you could be doing, should be doing, but you just can’t motivate yourself.  You figure you might as well use this time off, because it will probably never happen again.

Before you know it, John is knocking on your door.  You let him in and sit across your table from him.  He’s brought food, but you make no move to eat, not yet. You reach across the table for his hand, take it in both of yours.

“So, how was your day, honey?” you ask in a syrupy tone, and get a surprised laugh out of him.

“Wonderful, babe,” he answers, still shaking his head at you.

“I love you, John,” you blurt out before you can think about it any more.  He looks surprised, but not shocked, so you figure he probably did hear you last night.  “And I want to be with you,” you plow on before he has a chance to say anything.  “But things are going to have to change.”

“Then tell me what you want, Phil,” he says calmly, confidently.  You promised him only good things, and he believes you when you say that.  He trusts you, at least to be truthful.  But he’s never asked this before, and you wonder, did he just expect you to tell him, or did he think he already knew, assume you wanted the same things he did?  Or was he afraid to hear what you would say?

“I want... I want a commitment,” you say boldly.  The word just comes to you, and you find you like it.  You and John stumbled into a relationship, and this time, you want words and promises.  Ties to bind you.  “I mean it, John,” you add when he just grins at you like an idiot.

“No, I know.  And I love that you do.  It’s perfect.”

And you find that it is perfect.  You have so much left to work out, the details of your lives to iron out, to argue over and compromise over.  But for the first time in a long time, you have faith.  Faith in him, faith in yourself, faith in the future.

“Just tell me you’ll put me first,” you say, because you can’t quite kill the needy side of you.

“I’ll write it in my vows if I have to,” he says, and there's something shy about the way he smiles at you, looks up at you through his eyelashes.

There are so many things you could say to that, that he’s getting ahead of himself, that you don’t believe in marriage.  But you just hold his hand, and say nothing.


End file.
